Superstar
by Athelgar
Summary: There is little scope for martial artists in this modern, commercial era. Action superstar Himura Kenshin knows this all too well.
1. Prologue

**A/N – **I have reposted this story. Thanks to all who reviewed it before, and welcome to all those who haven't seen it.

Disclaimer – I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

**

* * *

**

**Prologue**

* * *

In this modern, commercial age, there was little scope for martial artists. What was the point of striving for ultimate excellence in body and mind when the whole world was obsessed with money?

There was no money in training endlessly, day after day until his palms bled, until he was so tired he could no longer keep his eyes open. There was no money in the balanced, controlled sweep of a blade, in the shifting grace of perfect footwork, in the perfect balance of trained muscles and a calm, disciplined mind. There was pride, and honour, and strength – but these, as his father pointed out with such crushing practicality, would not pay the bills or put food on the table.

He was eighteen years old now, and it was time to start living in the real world.

* * *

Hiko Seijuro, Kenshin's sardonic shishou, listened gravely to his concerns, and then dismissed them out of hand.

"Baka deshi, I didn't put so much effort into training you all these years to see you give it all up to become a salary man." He glared at Kenshin, daring him to make a comment – intimidated by the fierce light in those black eyes, Kenshin shut his mouth and listened respectfully. "You're one of the best swordsmen in Japan, now, and one day, if you train hard enough, you might even approach my level of brilliance. But if you give it all up – or, even worse, turn a genuine calling into a _hobby…"_

"But Shishou," Kenshin pointed out reasonably, "my father wants me to move out. There's no money for university, and I can't work at McDonald's forever."

"Money?" Hiko stared at him in disgust. "Money should be the last of your worries. The practitioners of Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu are concerned with the defense of the people, not the pursuit of money."

Kenshin looked about him at the dojo where, every single day for the last ten years, he'd poured his heart and soul into learning the sword. For the first time, he noticed the leaking, badly patched roof and the dingy, battered walls. The wooden floorboards were scuffed and dulled, and there was an air of general neglect about it – mostly, he thought, because Shishou was drunk more often than not, not caring about anything beyond his sake and his swords.

"But there is something…" Hiko took another, reflective swig from his sake bottle. "I wasn't always a drunken recluse in a run down dojo, baka deshi. I know someone, from long, long ago, who might be able to help you…"

Kenshin waited, as he always had, ready to absorb his shishou's words of wisdom.

"What do you think about acting?"

* * *


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - **I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

The crowd was huge, a restless, roaring mass of humanity, all screaming out one name –

_Ken-shin! Ken-shin! Ken-shin!_

It was the Tokyo premiere of his latest action movie, _The Last Honourable Man, _where he played Watanabe-san, a yakuza enforcer who had been marked for death by the new leader, the son of his old boss. Cruel, ambitious, and dishonourable, the son had seen Kenshin's character as a threat, and had acted to neutralize him.

Characteristically, Watanabe had hit back, and after an action-packed thrill ride featuring a tense, genuinely suspenseful assassination scene, a death-defying, spine-tingling base jump off a huge skyscraper, and the climactic, brilliantly choreographed sword fight with six opponents in the Golden Temple in Kyoto, he had eventually won the day. The film closed to rapturous applause with the image of him walking into the sunset, his swords sheathed at the waist, his trademark long red hair swishing behind him.

The fans loved it. Men and boys watched him for his spectacular skill with the sword, his flawless execution of even the most difficult techniques. Women loved him because of his pale skin, his deceptively delicate features, and his dangerous golden eyes –

Even the critics tolerated him, because he actually had some acting skill. Well, most of the critics…

* * *

"I saw him, Kaoru!" Her younger brother Yahiko ran up to her awed and excited. He would have been jumping up and down, she was sure, had he not been fourteen and supremely cool. "He spoke to me!"

Supremely uninterested in Himura Kenshin or his swords, Kaoru scribbled down a few more pithy descriptions of what, to her, had been a wildly improbable, largely plotless teenager's wet dream of guns, girls, and gore. Oh, the fight scenes had been spectacular, she admitted it freely, but they hadn't been enough to save the movie from the very sketchy plot and Himura's one-dimensional acting skills.

In the ten years since he'd burst onto the Asian movie scene, in all the movies he'd made, he had a very limited range – playing either the empty, emotionless assassin, or the guilt ridden ex-assassin, or burned out cop, or the retired master hiding from the pain of the world. That didn't stop him from being just as popular as Jackie Chan, or almost as revered as the great Master Lee himself.

"Kao-ru," Yahiko waved his hand over the small note-pad, finally gaining her attention. "You're not listening to me."

Blinking, she focused on him. "What? He spoke to you?"

"Yeah. And guess what – he's invited us to the after party!"

"Us?" she asked, blinking in confusion. "What do you mean us?"

"I mean, I told him my name so he could autograph my shirt, and he asked me if I was any connection to Kamiya Kaoru, the film critic. When I said yes, you were my sister; he smiled and invited us both to the after party…"

Kaoru stared at him in horror. She had been one of Himura Kenshin's most strident critics since she'd first begun reviewing four years ago. And he recognized her name?

"Come on, Kaoru, it's the biggest party of the year. You can't say no."

"Yes, Kamiya-san." A very recognizable voice spoke from behind her. "Do say you'll come. I've wanted to meet you ever since you gave _Sword Master 2 _a negative star."

Yahiko laughed, and went to greet him – he smiled down at the boy, and then circled around so that she could see him: his crooked smile, the rueful, laughing eyes, and that preposterous red hair, casually braided back.

"It deserved a negative star" she said dryly. "It was the worst movie I've ever seen."

He grinned. "Yes, I know. Even I can't watch it. My shishou refused to speak to me for months afterwards."

He took her arm, and she was surprised to note that, though his hands appeared girlish and almost delicate, there was real strength in them – and old, layered callouses on the palms.

"Your shishou?" she asked, still disconcerted and off balance.

"Hmm. He doesn't believe in crass commercialism. To his mind, if I'm going to make movies at all, I should make ones that reflect the true spirit and meaning of martial arts…"

Kaoru snorted.

"Yes," Himura-san said ruefully. "And there's the point where reality takes over. I do the best I can – and it's easier now, when I have more influence – but sometimes, movies like _Sword Master 2 _are inevitable…"

She smiled, taking pity on him. "I did like _Trust and Betrayal, _though. I thought it was by far your best work. Besides the incredible martial arts, you had a genuine, emotional storyline…"

_Trust and Betrayal, _the story of a young, idealistic Imperialist assassin in the Bakumatsu, with its mixture of incredibly choreographed violence and tender, fragile emotion, had sent Himura-san rocketing to stardom. However, much like James Bond had done for Sean Connery, the role of Hitokiri Battousai had followed him through the rest of his career, and nothing had ever been quite as good since.

He led them further into the back of the cinema, not up the stairs to the grand reception room where the after party was taking place. At the back exit, a uniformed doorman held the door open for them, bowing respectfully; Himura-san slipped him a tip, and then hurried Kaoru and Yahiko out to a waiting car.

"Wait!" she said, pulling back. "Where are we going? This isn't the after party…"

"Kaoru!" Yahiko hissed, gesturing at her to hurry. "It's cool. Kenshin's going to give me a demonstration… Quick, get in the car, before the fans figure out where Kenshin's gone!"

_Kenshin? When had Yahiko and he become such good friends?_

In the distance, she could hear a rising murmur of sound, fans shouting Himura-san's name, an eager baying as they ran their idol to earth. Her eyes widened, never having experienced anything like it –

Finally, with great dignity, she stepped into the car. Yahiko and Himura-san slid in beside her, and then they were off.

* * *


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer - **I don't own Ruroken. Don't sue.

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

Kamiya Kaoru – and her madly overeager younger brother Yahiko – lived in a dojo in downtown Tokyo. Kenshin looked about him, fascinated –

"Kamiya Kasshin Ryu," he said, reading from the wooden sign hanging just outside the entrance. "You're the assistant master?" he asked Kaoru, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes." She nodded. "But teaching kendo doesn't bring in much money, so –" she slid a sidelong look at him, grinned wickedly. "I moonlight as a film critic."

Kenshin made a face.

"Kao-ru!" Yahiko called. "Come on!" He waved at them from the dojo door, urging them to catch up with him.

Kaoru sighed. "Come on," she said. "Otherwise he'll be impossible to live with."

Kenshin followed her into the dojo. It was old, probably dating back to the late Tokugawa period, the floors polished wood, spotlessly clean from hours on end of dedicated scrubbing. Instantly, he felt at home – here, in places like this, where discipline, physical effort, and sweat led to calm, still peace…

"This is a good place," he said, more to himself than to her.

She turned and looked at him in surprise. He didn't see it, walking over to examine the old, faded scars in the walls, signs of hard use –

"Where did you learn to use a sword, Himura-san?" Yahiko asked. "Your biography said you trained in Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu."

Kenshin came back to himself. "Yes," he answered, smiling his charming public smile. "My shishou had a small dojo, on the outskirts of Kyoto. I used to ride there on my bicycle after school." He strolled up to Yahiko, who was staring eagerly at the rack of shinai on the wall. "Shall we?"

Yahiko nodded eagerly and handed him a shinai. Kenshin accepted it with a small bow and hefted it experimentally, gaining a feel for the balance and weight. He turned to Kaoru, as assistant master, who nodded her head, giving permission.

He stepped into the middle of the room, drew in a deep breath, and began his kata.

* * *

She'd seen it before. In his movies, in _Trust and Betrayal, _he'd demonstrated the range and power of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu. She could recognize some of the individual moves: the terrible, swift unsheathing stroke, the swirling inside slash, the spectacular, soaring aerial move that killed from above. These were his signature moves, and watching him perform them was awe-inspiring, but Kaoru, watching his kata, noticed something else.

He had flawless command of the fundamentals of kendo. Every step precise, every shift of weight perfectly balanced – that spoke of hours upon hours of hard, disciplined training. She hadn't thought it of him.

_This is a good place._

Somehow, because his fight scenes were always so flashy and spectacular, she forgot that to attain that level of skill, he must have worked endlessly for years. His good looks, his celebrity, his confident smile – it had all blinded her to the fundamental truth that, underneath everything else, he was primarily a martial artist.

Kata was a powerful revealer of character. And watching him, she did not see ego and arrogance, but only skill and confidence.

* * *

After fifteen minutes, he ended it, finishing with a solemn bow. Feeling the warm, smooth flow of his muscles, he stood up and returned the shinai to Yahiko, who was watching him as if he were a god, and then turned to Kaoru, who had a very peculiar expression on her face.

"Kamiya-san?" he asked quizzically. "Is there something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No. It's just that…" she frowned, and seemed to nerve herself up to say something. "It's just that I think I owe you an apology."

He blinked. "Oro?"

She stared at him.

He cursed himself. His childhood habit of chronic shyness with beautiful girls was coming back to haunt him with a vengeance.

"Himura-san," she drew herself up and bowed, very formally, "I apologise for calling you a wooden, stone-faced sword-swinger, and for any number of other such comments in the past."

Kenshin couldn't help it. "A wooden, stone-faced sword-swinger? I don't think I remember that one…" He pinned on his most guileless smile, laughing as she glared suspiciously at him.

"Was that from your review on _Once upon a time in Japan 4_? Or…no. I remember. _Triad Assassin in New York._"

She laughed. "All right Himura-san, I give in. Truce?"

They shook hands on it.

* * *

TBC...


End file.
